tar and honey
by manhattan martini
Summary: She was wearing pretty Sunday shoes and tights when they first met, a juxtaposition from the start, and Brendan would've liked to tell you that he didn't stare at her shiny-coat knees for a full set of five seconds before greeting her. — BrendanMay


**A/N: **this fic is unbetae'd and lovingly written for the "Fandom for Siken" charity auction. please check them out and consider donating to their Gofundme!

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* * *

She was wearing pretty Sunday shoes and tights when they first met, a juxtaposition from the start, and Brendan would've liked to tell you that he didn't stare at her shiny-coat knees for a full set of five seconds before greeting her.

Her hands folded against one another before he could offer his, and her city-slicker cadence was soft, a singing bird's trained lilt, as she introduced herself. He could almost see the private school plaid on those syllables, washed with expensive detergent and brand-name fabric softener, could almost pinch it between his calluses and feel it slide.

But May smiled as she talked, baring an unsure kind of politeness that Brendan could find it in himself to accept. If only because they were neighbors, now, and wasn't his Dad good friends with hers, anyway?

"Er, right," he said, and smiled as truly as he could, aware of how easily tension could rise between folks as different as the two of them. "It's nice meetin' ya too, May."

And he would've liked to tell you he didn't watch those Sunday shoes click-clack out of his room, down the wooden stairs that creaked at spots his family had long since memorized, and out of the house. Her eyes roamed over the pairs of mud-spattered boots lined up at the door, and Brendan felt his eyebrows turn despite himself, but then she bid goodbye again, that unsure politeness in her face, and Brendan offered his own brand right back.

'Cause that was what hospitable folk did, right? Well, whatever.

His mother teased him after the door clicked shut, as she was wont to do, grinning from behind a steaming pan that had no right smelling as good as it did.

Brendan scowled and muttered something that all mothers around the world would willingly ignore, the degree of the spoken offense just harmless enough to roll eyes at, and stomped up the stairs, wondering, wondering.

* * *

It was a while before he saw her again, glowing brown hair brushed perfectly beneath a blue silk bow. Brendan was sweating out of his skin, tense shoulders trembling beneath the ugly-yellow water hose extension.

Their newest patient had yet to be watered and fed, and the truck's water tank had warmed under the sun on the way from Oldale; the tentacool babe was understandably feeling testy, and was refusing to be transferred over to the cooled tank they had brought over from the garage.

In hindsight, perhaps doing it in the driveway—even if they _always_ had, and even if using the wheelbarrow was easier than to bring the car around to the backyard—wasn't such a good idea after all. Not if it meant May would blink at them first, surprised, and then be dragged over by the lasso of her good manners.

She stopped at a ways, though, fiddling with her bag's handle and staring wide-eyed at the sight before her.

Dad greeted May with a grin, even wrestling with the tentacool as he was, and Brendan was, for the first time, embarrassed by what had always been the norm. You don't stop handling animals to greet a lady, is what they all knew, 'cause animals won't stop to greet them, either. But Brendan, well, he just looked away, kneeling at the water faucet, and pretended to fiddle with plastic connections until the trained songbird voice had fluttered away to help her mother with the groceries.

She'd asked after the tentacool, a vision new enough that she'd sounded just a little bit frightened, just a little bit disgusted. What would she sound like if she hadn't learned how to disguise it under her city-slicker manners? Perhaps truly horrified, or perhaps she would have just turned tail and ran off to her air-conditioned home without a word, where the air was comfortingly fake and odorless.

"What're you gettin' all shy for, boy?" Dad asked, chortling loud and true, one garden-gloved hand grappling its tentacles, another trying to angle the tentacool into the salted-water tank. "Some city folk do bite, that's for sure, but she's a much sweeter gal than her old man."

Brendan had no desire to prolong the conversation or its subject. He only shrugged, and twisted the metal cross until the hose flexed and twisted, spraying the tentacool across its head and his dad across his face. Dad only laughed, gargling through the spray like a champion; the tentacool finally relaxed under the midday sun, body curling and uncurling like a lung that had been hours without air.

"There y'a go," Dad said, already forgetting about little city girls and their sweet smiles. The tentacool flopped out of his grasp and hit the water, suction disks opening like a mouth into a smile. "Not so angry now, ain't'cha, girl?"

Brendan wondered if it was the first time May saw a tentacool outside of a world-prized aquarium. If it was the first time there was no pane of thick glass between her and the real world.

… If only May had stayed to watch the tentacool swim and curl in the seawater, making cooing noises that bubbled up the tank and burst at the top like ice breaking. Letting them run their fingers across the ridge of its forehead, eyes closing in delight when they scratched softly.

If she'd stayed, Brendan thought, so sure of himself as he watched the tentacool play; if she'd stayed, surely she would never be afraid again.

* * *

The Oldale woods were fresh with dew, the chill of after-dawn just short of biting. Brendan was halfway into his thermos, hands tucked into the warmth of his armpits and eyes settled in the clearing.

The tentacool had already been sent on its way, vaccinated and tagged, and Dad was in Johto for a conference: there was nothing for Brendan to do but to try and gather observational data on the local fauna. The Oldale woods had little novelty to offer, with how diligently Brendan visited, waited, watched; gathering data was, sadly, nearly as exciting as watching paint dry. But Brendan was still too young (and his mother too concerned) to travel past Petalburg. Besides, there was always a chance, no matter how ridiculously small, that Brendan would be able to snag a shiny pokémon. They were rare enough that even common species could offer new data about the anomaly, and—

"Brendan?"

Brendan would've liked to tell you he didn't spring straight out of his camping chair, splattering the arm of it with hot lemon tea and smothering an undignified splutter. May's pretty Sunday shoes did not click-clack against the soft, grassy earth, and though he found it obvious, it was only after being so startled.

"Oh," May said, coloring, her smooth accent a little more clipped at the edges of its words, "I'm so sorry, I - I didn't mean to startle you!"

"Well, yeah, I wasn't expecting anyone," Brendan said, and his face felt like the arm of his chair: hot enough to steam. His temper ran more lukewarm, however, and he bit back almost all the words he wanted to say. "It's early in the morning for city—for most folks."

May's expression flickered, her blush deepening when she caught onto his faux-pas. Those pretty blue eyes settled on his, as chilled as the cloudless skies above them, and they narrowed infinitesimally, unsubtly.

"I'm used to getting up early," she replied, soft and sweet as always, and looked away.

Private school plaid voice, ironed into flat, hard lines. Brendan cleared his throat and moved on, lifting his thermos from the pocket of his chair and securing the lid back on. The plastic fabric smelled like hot lemon jam, straight out of the pan.

"What can I help y'a with, then?" he said, unable to resist the thickening of his drawl, even as he knew that it was easier to erase it. "Must be somethin' awful important, for you to come all this way."

May's hand brushed her hair back, the curve of it catching her earring, and then fell to capture its sibling. Her fingers were tight around the others, white at the knuckles, and city folk sure were proud. But they always swallowed it, in the end.

"My father suggested it was time I got my own pokémon," she replied, and her teachers had failed to teach her skin how to stay pale and secretive. Even her ear was turning pink, now. "But Mr. Birch—"

"Professor," Brendan corrected, because even backwoods townies were capable of getting their many degrees, and he could forgive the way she perceived the country, but he wouldn't forgive her prejudice towards its people.

… His father wouldn't have cared. Neither would his mother. They probably wouldn't even register the slight, if it even was one. Was it? Did it matter?

"Professor Birch," and she had to look away again, "was out of town. Mrs. Birch suggested I ask you," and here May turned her gaze onto his, blue, blue, "and here I am, I guess."

He had nothing better to do, but he was annoyed at her now, and wanted nothing more than to see her turn back on her Sunday shoe heel and make the trip back to the Oldale bus stop.

"How did you get here, anyway?" he asked instead, sitting back down on his tea-soaked chair. "Oldale isn't exactly in a dangerous area, but wingull can still be pretty darn annoying if they get it in their minds to be so."

"My father had a package to pick up at the mart," May replied from behind him. Fabric shuffled, then, and was followed by a short sigh. "I'm not supposed to stay for long. He has to open the gym soon, and he's driving me home first, so …"

"I'll think about it," Brendan said, rolling his eyes. No wonder her shoes were still sparkly-clean, if her dad drove her around all the time. "I'm kinda busy at the moment, so …"

May kept quiet at that, though Brendan could pick up on the soft whispers of disturbed tall grass. He wondered if grass stains were easy to get off polished plastic. Probably.

"You don't like me very much, do you, Brendan?" Her feet stilled. The brush of skin, a noise as soft as it was low, made him picture clasped hands.

Brendan would've liked to tell you that he laughed her question off, smoothing over it like butter on toast, and that they were great friends after it all.

"Can't say that I do," he answered, staring at the trunk of the closest tree like it revealed the secrets of the universe. "But I reckon the feeling's mutual, so what's the big deal?"

May sighed again, short and flavorless. A neutral taste out of an expectedly honeyed mouth, and a reprieve they could both happily enjoy:

"I'll see you later, then."

"Yep," Brendan said, and listened to her pad from moss to grass to sand, until the woods were clear and silent once more, and the arm of his chair grew cold and damp.

* * *

With the click of a button and a red flash, it was over. May's fear of wild things didn't translate into battling—her style was clean, schooled. But then again, Brendan hadn't expected otherwise.

No, in fact, scratch that: Brendan had only expected to win. Because why wouldn't he? He'd been a trainer for longer than she had, even if he'd always focused more on academia, even if there wasn't much to do out here in the sticks, even if he'd soon grown tired of chasing after wild poochyena and wrumple and had returned to the comfort of his father's lab.

It felt impossible, picturing May diving into tall grass with her torchic in tow, sap and blade between fingers, her pretty Sunday shoes dusted all over. Ah, but she'd replaced those with Devon running shoes that still looked out of the box. Brendan's had long since scuffed over, dull plastic that no longer sparkled, soles half-worn and ridges full of dirt.

"Oh," May said, echoing the surprise they both felt. Her torchic crooned and chirped, feathers fluffed, and darted back to look up at her. "Um," May added.

"She wants a treat," Brendan said, despite wanting nothing more than to scurry away into a pokécenter and never see May again.

May flushed pink, hands patting down her bag like the gestures would materialize a lava cookie in one of the pockets. And for once she looked ridiculous, out of her depth and showing it, and Brendan couldn't decide if he should revel in it or admit that she looked cute.

"Here," he said, instead of arguing with himself over semantics, and fished his own bag of treats from the pocket of his jacket. He knew better than to spoil his pokémon rotten, but he also wasn't made of ice, and preferred to keep them close at hand.

May fumbled the receive, but managed in the end, pressing the plastic against her chest and looking like a ponyta foal, all trembling limbs and uncertainty. Her eyes settled on his then, and Brendan's belly went empty and heavy at the same time, because—

"Thank you," she said, all plaid, and there was so much of her father in her gaze: resolute, calm, even if the rest of her had yet to catch up.

What would she have turned out if Norman hadn't left? Would they have been childhood friends, chasing each other down the creek, lifting damp rocks to find slumbering wurmple, hunting taillow through the grass when the weather cleared and they returned from their voyages?

… Would she have stuck her tongue out at people like her? Or would she have been a better person than Brendan was?

"It's nothin'," he replied, finally, his accent betraying his nonchalance. He cleared his throat and the air in a fell swoop, 'cause he had things to do and none of them were even the littlest bit related to moping. "I'll get you next time, May."

And her face split in a grin that she'd likely been taught to dim, with how her dimples faded in and out of her skin, her eyes narrowing at the edges, and Brendan resented city folk for doing it to her, resented her for allowing it to happen.

"It's a promise," May said, and it was.

* * *

The first time he saw her on TV, that blue-felted mic shoved into her face by an overly ecstatic Gabby, Brendan felt like he'd been hallucinating for a long time, and that no one had bothered to tell him.

"—so be on the lookout for this girl!" Gabby was saying, now, and May was smiling that Olivine smile, undimpled. So, at least there was that, Brendan thought, satisfied for some reason.

"Looked mighty embarrassin'," Brendan would say later, breathing over his tea to avoid looking at May directly. Hoenn was warm but winter chilled the land enough to make him zip up his jacket and fish his scarf from the depths of his bag.

"It – it wasn't that bad," May would lie with her hot cocoa breath, hands pressed around the paper cup. "It was the least I could do," she would add, brow furrowing in defiance.

And Brendan would laugh, because what did _that _mean, anyway? City folk were so weird, he would say, and May would make a soft noise with her lips (pfft), and she wouldn't say anything, and Fortree's skies would deepen into a later blue, and they would each go on with their lives.

Brendan would hold her hand for a second too long, then, their handshake lulling into a brief something else, and May would either let it happen or not realize, and Brendan wouldn't know which he preferred.

Now, though, Brendan only stared at the television, static like the old screens, and realized this city girl was going to leave him in the dust.

* * *

It was raining bucketfuls by the time he got to Verdanturf, sopping wet and curled around a brand new egg from the daycare. The shell was still firm and nearly-elastic, sparkling under the pokécenter lights while the water rolled down its length.

And May was there, holding her jacket over the hanger at the automatic door, eyes wide and blue, blue, until she blinked in her surprise. Brendan could sympathize, fingers pressing against the slick surface until the egg threatened to pop out of his grasp and roll across the linoleum.

"Oh," May said, folding the hood and letting her raincoat hang off the hook.

"And-a-oh to you too," Brendan said, trying to mask the heat on his face by setting the egg down between his feet, rolling back his shoulders to slip out of his jacket. "'S been a while, May. What'cha been up to?"

The last time they'd seen each other, Rustboro had been buzzing around them, cobblestone steps and hurried passersby mixing like a hum. May had won the battle by the skin of her teeth, juggling empty potions like a jester until even Brendan's mudkip had fainted.

Brendan would've liked to tell you that he was still annoyed, that he thought she'd cheated, that May would've lost otherwise. He would've liked to tell you that his heart hadn't softened when she'd pulled a bag of treats from her bag's outside pocket, same brand as the one he'd given her, and smiled unsurely at him when she saw him stare at the logo. He would've liked to tell you that he had a clever quip about them being more alike than he'd thought, and that May would have giggled and agreed.

"My, um, torchic evolved," she replied, brushing her wet hands against one another. Brendan brushed his against his pants, cool skin flat against his thighs, and watched her watch him.

"C'mon," he said, neck still hot, "we can ask the nurses for a towel."

They went. May almost matched his step, half behind, and used her pretty plaid tone to greet the nurse. The metal roof of the pokécenter drowned the room in flat, loud pitter-patters of rain, and her voice was so soft, but so clear.

Both their running shoes were exchanged for a brand-new set of warm socks, and left to dry by the couches were they sat. Hers were surrounded by fat clumps of wet mud, unrecognizable save for the stubborn red Devon logo, impermeable and fluorescent.

Brendan thought of her Sunday shoes, and found himself inspecting her bag; as if he could see through it to find them there.

"Would you like something to drink?" May asked, fiddling with her pretty brand-name wallet, and Brendan rose to his socked feet to search through his pockets.

"This one's on me," he said, and watched her look up at him. "For, uh, celebratin' your first pokémon evolving, 'n all," he added, an uncomfortable weight pushing and pulling at the pit of his stomach.

"Oh! Thank you, Brendan," May replied, and clicked the clasp of her wallet shut. Her face was still pink around her cheeks, her nose, but it could've easily been from the rainstorm, so he tried not to think too much about it.

The lemon tea from the machine warmed his bones, and he figured it warmed hers too, from the way she settled into the couch and sighed long and slow. For a minute, neither of them talked; he later realized that she was less comfortable with silences than he was.

"My mudkip evolved a while ago, too," Brendan said, brushing his thumb down the plastic cup. "I was in Dewford at the time, uh, I think it was before I took on Brawly … Anyway, it feels pretty good, huh? Was it your first evolution?"

"It was," May said, smiling that pretty, dimpled smile. Brendan swallowed down the rest of his tea to wet his throat. "I'd seen Dad evolving some of his zigzagoon, but," and here she shrugged, looking at the wall.

"It's not the same," Brendan finished.

"No," May said, and her hand fell down to her waist, fingers tapping at her first pokéball. "No, I guess it isn't."

Another lull, filled in with the faraway sound of the radio on the counter and the occasional flutter of the nurse's newspaper pages. Brendan cozied up the egg in his lap a little better, and stretched his legs until his feet knocked against the coffee table before them.

"So, um, you took on Brawly?"

He had. His shroomish had been swaying on its little stubby feet by the end of it, but Brawly had grinned and smacked his heavy hand on Brendan's back, and now the badge was stuffed in his wallet for safekeeping, right next to Roxanne's.

If May took him on now, would Brendan win? It was raining outside, so her combusken's flames wouldn't sting as hard, and his marshtomp would have an advantage—

"Congratulations!" May said, all sweet, and Brendan had to take a sip of his tea to hide his expression, curdled and warm as it felt. "I had quite a hard time against Brawly," she added, as Brendan swallowed down.

"It's 'cause you don't match up well against fighting types," he replied, smacking his tongue. "You should get a flying type, one day. Especially since, uh, you can always go flyin' on them, and all."

May bit the inside of her cheek and dove in her own thoughts, fingers pressed against the plastic cup. A tiny crackle of plastic thunder to accompany the weather outside.

Brendan would've liked to tell you that he racked his brain for something else to say, that they stayed up talking and drinking cheap machine-tea until the sun was out and the rain cleared, that he taught her how to best sneak up on an unsuspecting taillow. That he offered to go with her and make sure she would do well.

"Right, then," Brendan said, setting down his cup next to hers. "I best be goin'. Got an early day tomorrow."

May looked at him, disappointed or surprised (he couldn't tell which she truly felt like but he knew which he preferred), but she only nodded and bid her goodbyes, watching him slip past to talk to the nurse and get his own room for the night.

And in the morning, the Rusturf tunnel had been cleared, and May was gone.

* * *

The air-conditioned lobby of the mall was Lilycove's most prized oasis. Brendan was melting in a chair, lazily nibbling at a discount ice-cream and tossing frozen treats at his swampert.

There was a special on the news about the dangerous heat wave running hot across Hoenn, and Brendan should really call home and check up on the old man, 'cause gods knew that jeep didn't ride smooth in winter, nevermind the summer—

"Brendan?" May asked, as the glass doors slid shut behind her, and another wave of artificial air came soothing down their damp skin. She smelled like deodorant and perfume, and the familiar smell of crushed, wet grass, the one that carried onto anyone who crossed Route 119 on foot.

"Howdy, there," Brendan replied, gesturing with his hat at her. "'S about time you got to Lilycove, with what the heat 'n all. You should grab a water bottle."

May smiled, dimples like petite half-moons, and it was only now that he noticed her freckles, spread across the bridge of her nose like a blanket of stars. He wondered if they were only from the sun, if they would disappear in the thick fog of winter, later, or if it was just him who had never bothered to look so closely.

She sat next to him, peeling off her bandanna and vest, and straightened her back like a proper lady. But she fanned herself with her hand all the same, skin sparkling with sweat, so Brendan sat a little straighter in his chair to watch her.

"Thank you – I refilled my canteen at the pokécenter," she said, looking around the lobby.

Brendan caught that look, trained to spot interest after all this time capturing wild pokémon, and he couldn't help but ask:

"Does it, uh, does it remind you of home?"

He had never been to Olivine, only Goldenrod, and even then he'd been just a child, and his young memory had summarized the whole city into a giant building full of sun-blinding windows. Olivine was a coast city, he knew, famed for its beaches and lighthouse. But May had been paler than a glass of skim milk when she'd first set foot on Littleroot.

"A little," May confessed, dimples deepening as her smile widened. "The air, especially, because of the sea. … We didn't have wingull or pelipper, though."

"What did you have?" Brendan asked, because he was never not interested in learning more about pokémon.

May must've noticed his too-sudden scrutiny, because she giggled, a songbird in every regard, and Brendan's ears went hotter than the asphalt outside.

"Mostly magikarp, tentacool, and krabby," she replied, clicking her heels together. "The harbors had some pidgey and hoothoot, but we didn't have a marina as large as Lilycove's, so it was easier to keep tidy."

Brendan hummed at her, recalling how she'd balked at the baby tentacool, all that time ago. Now her expression had been wiped of that terrified brushstroke, and the paper was clean, bright. How many pokémon had she seen, by now? How many had she grown used to? They were both collectors, he knew, and his father's research was improving because of her too.

"And, of course, there aren't any Contest Halls," May sighed, gaze faraway. "It's a pity, actually. I'm sure they'd be a hit back home!"

"You're into Contests?" Brendan laughed, despite himself.

May's nose crinkled, freckles moving.

"They're fun," she retorted, shoulders rolling a slow shrug. "It's … I dunno," she added, and now it was her mouth's turn to crinkle to the side, lips pursed, "it's not like I didn't like the Pokéathlon, but here it's – it's different. It's like I was always meant to be in Hoenn, or something. You know?"

Brendan stared at her for long enough that May flushed pink and curled into herself. Because May might not have meant for it to show, but she had turned her button nose at Littleroot first, and, later, at the nitty-gritty of training life. Sunday shoes and insincere smiles, the boldest of refusals, and he'd been glad that she was the picture perfect of the stereotype.

"Is it that weird?" May asked, whispering the question so quietly it was nearly lost under the blast of the AC units.

It was, because May was meant to be a stuck-up little girl and Brendan was supposed to be the boy she didn't want around. It was weird. But that didn't mean it was a bad thing. So Brendan only grinned at her and got up from the sofa, cringing only when his legs stuck to the leather like sweaty stickers.

The tides were full, or at least almost there, and May had probably never seen wailmer playing in the waves, nor had she watched the sunset from the lighthouse— at least not this one. Brendan had only been here for a couple of days, but he wanted, he needed to be the one who showed her these things, because it suddenly it mattered so very much that May loved Hoenn more than she did Johto.

"Come on, then," he said, and offered his hand before his brain gave the order, "I'll show you something just as spectacular, then."

May took his hand and got on her feet; their gloves were warm and wet, an almost uncomfortable texture, but Brendan waited until May was straight-backed and expectant before letting go.

"In return," he added, "teach me how to make decent pokéblocks."

And it was May who held out her hand, this time, smiling with all of her pearly-whites.

"It's a promise," again, and it felt just as warm.

* * *

The chain of their bikes rattled softly as they lifted their feet and let the slope bring them down.

Brendan pressed the brakes just so, and May's laughter slid past him as she gained speed, the tip of her ponytail curling and shaking as the stones were pressed flat under their tires. And he found that he could not recognize her now, after all this time— that the plaid in her had been wrinkled beyond recognition, even as it still showed its original vibrant colors; that the bird in her voice had opened the door of its own cage and spread its wings.

He wished, for a brief moment, that he had been the one to give her the key. Maybe he had, he hoped, watching her look over his shoulder with that dimpled smile. But his bike caught onto a rock, and the seat smacked against his butt, and that thought vanished as he yelped and held onto the handles.

The hill rolled on under the rubber. The dark, summer-cool blanket of stars lit the country road beneath them as Littleroot's yellow windows blurred past like faraway tunnel lights. Bug types were crooning their songs, unseen, growing quiet when their bikes whizzed past, and then starting anew.

Tomorrow, May would climb onto her swellow and disappear into the spring skies. Tomorrow, Brendan knew, May would carve her own place in history, and Brendan was going to wait for her to fly back down and tell him that Hoenn was as much hers as she was Hoenn's.

Littleroot's champion, is what they would call her, or maybe May Maple from Littleroot. And he would know that that was the gods'-given, certified truth.

… Well, but that was tomorrow.

"What're you smiling about, over there?" May called out, riding closer to look at him better.

Brendan would've liked to tell you that he answered: "You, of course," and that May would get it, because she was clever, and she'd smile that dimpled smile right back at him, and no more words were needed. He would've liked nothing as much as this thought. But he couldn't, not tonight, so he just swerved away from her, telling her about the time he convinced her into trying one of his own pokéblocks, and she'd almost turned green, did she remember that?

From the way May laughed with him, throwing her head back, she remembered. Her voice echoed through Littleroot's streets as they chased each other, and they each waited for what tomorrow would bring.


End file.
